When I grew up, it wasn’t much of a secret that I was adopted. My mother from Indonesia, my father half Dutch and half Indonesian, it wasn’t difficult to guess that I wasn’t there son in the biological sense. Looking back at family pictures when I was a kid, my white square face gave away the “secret” at the first glance. Some of the kids at school made a fuzz about it but that never bothered me much because I had the best parents any kid could wish for!
When i was old enough to understand everything, my parents explained me about the adoption, the little things they knew about my parents and where they came from. Always educating me about my background, encouraging me to find my roots when I was ready for it. When my parents, my loving adoptive parents were still alive, finding my roots was not so much on my mind as my parents wished for. My father always asked me about it, challenged me to find out before it is too late but I kept pushing it away, not able to accept that I had other parents than my parents. It felt to me like betraying the parents who adopted me and loved me, my father kept telling me I was wrong in feeling that way and as always, my wise loving father was right and I was just stubborn.
Some years ago, when my parents were already sick and knew they wouldn’t have much days left, I promised my father to finally search my roots, finally find out if there was still family of my parents. It took much more effort than I expected and I had many moments in which I considered to give up. Luckily there was always some kind of progress when I was about to throw in the towel and eventually I found the brother of my father, my very own uncle. And a year later, I found my aunt, the sister of my mother. My family!